“I already entered the six hundred forty in the harvest log,” I said.

Ben squatted by the tire and checked his left shoe, running his thumb along the clean rubber edge.

“They don’t rub at the heel at all, Mom,” Ben said.

“Good,” I said.

“You have track practice at eight on Monday.”

Grace pulled two ears of sweet corn from her apron pocket and set them on the truck bed.

“Your father fixed the lock on the machine shed door after lunch,” Grace said.

“Your record boxes are inside on the steel shelf.”